A/N: This chapter is a bit shorter than the others, and I apologise, but I hope the content will shed some light on the rest of the story. Don't worry; Ginny will be back in the next one. Thanks to my sister Gracie, who wrote part of this chapter for me as an un-birthday present; to Gabriele, who generously volunteers his time so this story will be readable to you all; and to all of you who have overwhelmed me with your wonderful, wonderful reviews.

Chapter 11

"Halloo in there! Halloo!" Someone was shaking him by the shoulder; a voice was calling to him and slowly, reluctantly, he drifted toward it. The voice had no business pulling him out of the blackness when he was so very comfortable – when he had, at last, found rest – right where he was.

"Halloo! Wake up now, there's a good lad." He opened his eyes a fraction of a crack. There was light, and blurred shapes, and his head hurt. He groaned.

"Aye, it's time ye came to now. Open up yer eyes."

He reached up two hands that felt weighted with lead, and rubbed at his eyes. He blinked again, and his vision cleared. He was in a small room, lying on a narrow bed. A rough, homespun blanket covered him. A man sat on the chair beside the bed. He wore the clothes of a Muggle and though he appeared to be younger than Father, his hair above a ruddy, unlined face, was completely white.

"Where am I?" He forced the words from cracked lips and a parched throat. "Who are you?"

The man raised his eyebrows. "Do ye not know who I am?"

He closed his eyes, thinking only, 'water'.

"And do ye not recollect how ye came to be here?"

He groaned, and tried to make his mind reach back into the misty horrors of his last memories, but all he could recall were wisps of screams and of hot, red light.

The man spoke again. "Ye killed my son, boy. Can ye not remember that?"

He opened his eyes and stared at the man, sure in one breath that he had heard him wrong and just as certain in the next that the man spoke the truth. Enough jumbled scraps of memory, garbled sounds and indistinct images vied in the reaches of his mind for him to know instinctively, that that thing the man had said was going to turn out to be sickeningly, horrifyingly true.

The Muggle stooped over him then, and he shrank back, but the man only slid an arm beneath his shoulders and lifted his head. The man pressed a glass of water against his mouth.

"Aye boy, ye killed me own son. Ye took his life, and now I've saved yours. That's a blood debt you owe me. I've bought your soul, son, and that's a fact."

He tipped the glass, and Draco drank.

Fiona Gordon was awakened by a flash of green from the fireplace in her bedroom.

"Oh, not again," she groaned into her pillow. The clock on her bedside table read 3.50 a.m.: they had been in bed just three hours. She rolled over and squinted at the fireplace. There was no one there, only the flames, flickering weird and green and empty, as usual.

"David." There was no reply. She reached under the covers and slipped her hand beneath her husband's pyjama shirt. Gently, she rubbed his bare back. "David," she said more loudly.

"Mmph." He stirred, but did not come awake.

"David!" She raised herself up on her elbows, fully awake herself, now, and leaned over him, burying her face in the curve of his neck. "Wake up, sweetheart."

Her husband opened one eye. "What is it?"

"Floo call for you. Come on, wake up."

He groaned. "This makes the third time this week!"

"You can always say no."

He rolled onto his back and shielded his eyes against the green firelight, with his forearm. He sighed. "No, I can't."

"You mean you won't."

He made a low, frustrated noise in his throat. "Doesn't it amount to the same thing?" He groped for his glasses on the bedside table, and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, put them on and sat up.

"Poor, poor David," Fiona said, stroking his back. "Can I do anything?"

He leaned over and kissed her lingeringly on the cheek. "Just keep the home fires burning, for when I get back."

"I'll be here."

He pulled her against him and nuzzled her neck, letting go only reluctantly. "I count on it."

"I love you, you know."

"Yes, I count on that too." With another sigh, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his clothes. When he had dressed, he took a pinch of Floo powder from the teak box on the mantle and looked back at Fiona, who was sitting up in bed, watching him. She blew him a kiss, and fluttered her fingers at him.

"Be careful."

"I will." He threw in the powder, and stepped into the flames. "Headquarters," he said, and was gone.

Fiona sat back against the pillows. It was no good trying to think about going back to sleep now that she was good and wide awake. Anyway, she half-expected that Betsy would be along shortly. She got up, and pulling her housecoat around her shoulders, made her way down to the kitchen to make a pot of tea.

Sure enough, the water was nearly at the boil, and she was just taking it off the hob when the kitchen fireplace flared green and Betsy stepped out, brushing ash from her own housecoat.

Fiona smiled at her sister and held up the teapot. "I thought you'd be along. Tea?"

"Yes thanks, and some toast, if you've got it." Fiona had it. "This makes three times this week," Betsy said, sliding into a chair at the scrubbed oak table. "It's getting so Lowen doesn't remember what a good night's sleep is anymore."

"Aye," Fiona said. "David was saying something like that himself. Still, would you have them do any differently?" Neither of them would, and they both knew it.

They sipped their tea in silence. Then, "How long do you think they'll be gone this time?"

"They'll be home when they're home, I suppose."

"Should we call Ginny, do you think? So she won't be all alone?"

Fiona looked at her sister, puzzled. "What; did Lowen not tell you? Ginny doesn't know."

"Doesn't know..." Betsy put down her teacup with a clatter. "How can she not know?"

Fiona shrugged. "Draco hasn't told her. He must have his reasons."

"But... where does she suppose he disappears to, all those times he's called away?"

"Who knows what excuse he gives her? It's not really our business though, is it?"

Betsy frowned at her sister. "Well, yes, I think it is very much our business."

"No," Fiona said firmly, "it isn't. Stay out of it, Betsy Kincaid. Draco will tell Ginny when he's ready."

Betsy leaned forward earnestly. "Tell me, Fiona, did you like her? I liked her!"

"Aye, I did. Very much."

"I think she's going to be good for him."

"Do you now? How so?"

"Well..." Betsy considered. "Draco's always been proud. A mite too sure of himself. Cocky, you might say. But tonight, he seemed – oh, I don't know..."

"A bit softer around the edges?"

"Right! I couldn't put my finger on what it was, but you've hit on it. He couldn't keep his eyes off her, could he?"

Fiona chuckled. "No, he couldn't, and that's a fact. But I daresay she'll keep him on his toes."

"Well, that's not a bad thing." Betsy helped herself to another cup of tea. "But are they happily married, do you think?"

Fiona did not answer right away. At last, she said slowly, "I don't know if Draco knows what it is to be truly happy. He certainly seemed more content than I've ever seen him, though."

"And Ginny? Did she seem happy, to you?"

Fiona shook her head regretfully. "I wish I could say she did. Perhaps I'm wrong – and I hope I am – but I sense there's something... restless in her. It makes me very sorry, too, because I like her and I'd like to see the two of them succeed together."

Betsy looked at her sister archly. "Aye, because if Draco's happy at home, perhaps he'll put his foot down about all these midnight outings..."

"...and we'll get to spend a full night with our husbands once in a while!" Fiona smiled. "Well anyhow, I felt last night that I should like to do something to cheer Ginny up a bit. What do you say we pay her a visit tomorrow?" She glanced at the clock, which showed that it was nearly four-thirty in the morning. "Or, I should say today, rather."

"Oh yes! I'd like to see her again. I felt, that given half a chance, we really could be good friends." Betsy yawned hugely. "Floo me when you're ready, but please not before noon. Come to think of it, any time before two o'clock would be positively obscene." She stood and stretched luxuriously. "Well, thanks for the snack. I'm for bed."

Fiona smiled and gave a little wave as Betsy stepped back into the fireplace. "Sweet dreams."

"You too."

Fiona went back to bed, and slept until nearly eleven, half-conscious always, of David's empty spot beside her.

John Dalby couldn't take it anymore, couldn't take it. Bloody McAlistair and his damned inquisitorial squad, always ferreting about for information, always snooping, always gloating about how they were better than he was...
The rusty little car bounced over the rutted back roads, radio burping out a sad rendition of an American pop song that was alien to him. The man driving pressed his foot suddenly to the floor and the car leapt forward with an alarming whine of the motor. A lorry trundling toward him on the road swerved sharply, just missing him.

The train streaked across the countryside, barely visible behind a grey sheet of rain. Inside, the late shift commuters dozed under their newspapers or chatted companionably, linked by the familiarity of years of travel together. Mrs Armstrong, a comfortable matron who supervised the cleaning staff at the local rest home was sharing a complicated knitting pattern with Mrs Gardner, a kindly busybody who superintended the evening shift of nurses at London's biggest hospital. Behind them, ancient Major Dunhill, long retired, and riding the train as always for lack of anything better to do, was showering a young, fresh-faced recruit home on leave with improbable stories of his own military adventures.

He'd been the first one they'd looked at when money had gone missing, and he hated them for it. Asses. College-educated, pretty-boy jackasses, the lot of them. They'd looked down on him from the day he'd hired on as an apprentice draftsmen at the highbrow London civil engineering firm. And why? Why! Because he didn't speak like they did, because his clothes and his accent, and the cheap lunches he brought to work still showed his roots of poverty even after all these years of scrabbling and scrapping his way upward, that's why.

"Jem! How's yer wife, then?" The street sweeper hailed the shopkeeper, who kept impossible hours, across the car, and received a friendly wave in return.
"She's a fair sight better now that they're done mucking about with the radiation and all. Got up and did a bit o' cookin 'this weekend, she did!"
The sweeper made a fist of victory, and the shopkeeper answered it with a fist of his own, and a little crow. They'd been travelling together for ten years, and the barriers had long ago come down.

The man sniffed and choked on a sob, wiping his nose on his sleeve as the car careened around a corner, approaching the edge of a town.
Being raised poor wasn't a crime, he thought viciously, and took another long pull at the bottle in his lap. Even when you had an old man who beat his children without mercy, the way his old man had done. It wasn't a crime.
And three years ago, he had discovered the white stuff; the lovely, white powder that stung your nose, and made you forget, made you rise above it all until you were king of everything for awhile. It was... it was beautiful, it was something to make men gods, and it was all there was for him anymore.

"Now really, Rodgers," the engineer was saying firmly to the conductor, who'd brought him up a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits as he'd long ago taken to doing at this point in their journey, "I can't agree with you there. You can speak of logic all you want, but me mum believed in ghosts, and me grandmum wi 'her, and after all the stories I've bin raised on, well..." he paused to chase a piece of Rodger's wife's excellent shortbread with a swallow of tea. "Well, I've been disposed all me life to believe that there's witches and haunts abroad, and good and evil spirits doin ' their best to make theirselves felt too. Ye can't convince me no difference, and there's a fact. Why just last week McGarry was tellin 'me..."

The car didn't pause for the traffic light, just blew through it, as the driver tossed back another fiery swallow from the bottle. 'Come on, coppers. Try it, I'm begging you!'
He turned the radio up and leaned into the glove box, fishing out a small, plastic bag, white with residue. He plucked at it, whimpering a little. Ahead of him, a railroad crossing arm came slowly down, lights flashing, bells clanging their warning.

"Annie, wake up dear! Let's just run back to the loo for a moment, shall we? Then we won't have to rush when the train pulls in to station." The girl speaking was sleepy herself, and clearly too young to be a mother, but was trying her best to be responsible.
"All right then," the child scrubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked around a trifle crossly. "Where's Mummy? She said we'd see her before midnight."
"Only another little while, dear. She and Da' are probably waiting with the boys right now. We want to look our nicest for them though, don't we?"
"I can't wait to show them Buster, Maya! Don't you think they'll be pleased?"
The older girl eyed the string-tied box at her feet doubtfully. The sounds of contented snoring issued gently from numerous holes in the top and sides. She wasn't at all sure their family would be pleased by the unexpected addition of a very rambunctious mongrel puppy to their ordered home, but couldn't bring herself to say so. "Well, they won't be able to deny that he's got personality, Annie. And when we call him a souvenir from cousin Daniela, they'll probably be very accepting of him. I hope. Come, let's find the loo."

He turned the bag inside out, sucking at the spoonful of powder left in it, licking it clean when he was done. Within thirty seconds his mind had disconnected even further, his muscles flowing together, sticky, like butterscotch, and a jolt of pure, sexual energy burned through him, and he knew that he could fly.
It cost more in a month than a bloke like him earned in a year. He pulled hard at the bottle again, washing it all down, hating the bastards who had brought him to this point.
And now they had what they were looking for. Evidence, they called it. Evidence that allowed them to sneer and gloat and whisper behind their hands, and the damned police were waiting at his apartment at this very moment. If he went back there, his life was worse than over.

Inside the cars, the passengers heard the warning whistle, and began to stir themselves, gathering their bags and papers about them. Outside, the rain streamed from the windows. Supper was long over, but warmly-lit houses awaited most of them, and loved ones had pots of tea simmering for them on the backs of stoves.

The little car slowed just enough to swerve around the first crossing arm. It paused, then jerked forward again, sharply and to the left, taking off half of the second crossing arm with a splintering crash. It seemed to hop sideways, sputtered a time or two, and came to rest crookedly on the tracks themselves. Behind it and before it, the bells clanged in rhythmic warning.
He knew what they did to a chap in prison, he'd heard the stories. Well. There were some things worse than death, and he wouldn't give himself over to a life like that, not in a million years.

The train whistle blasted again, and the conductor began to make his way back through the cars, announcing the station.

In a manor bedroom in the Scottish Cairngorms, the fire flared suddenly green, and Draco Malfoy awoke with a start.

Damn it all to hell. It was the most miserable kind of night possible, outside of an outright blizzard, which might be drier, come to think of it. Rain was sheeting down, the temperature hovered just above freezing, and a malicious wind blew down from the mountains, creeping under scarves and hoods as if they weren't there. Draco shuddered, and pulled his woollen cloak tighter about him, wondering where the others were. Off to his left he thought he heard Lowen shout something, and from ahead he heard the Commander's voice, but there was no distinguishing words in this weather. He tapped his ear three times and murmured, "Audio."

Instantly, words filled his head.

"Gordon, cut across this way! 'is car is wedged on the bleedin 'tracks, I can't shift it!"

To his right the shriek of the train's whistle filled his ears, and everything seemed to slow down, and to focus in on one spot ahead of him.

Draco sprinted forward. He caught his leader's eye and waved his arm. Through the sheeting rain, the Commander nodded his acknowledgement, and Draco turned to face the train tracks. From somewhere behind him, he heard Kincaid giving the order for a Levitating Spell. He knew these men. There was no need for discussion now, not after all of these times. They were removing the car. He would stop the train.

Tomorrow, Witch Weekly and the Daily Prophet would report in glorious, romanticised terms that Quicksilver had done it once again, and for another day the world would speculate about the larger-than-life superhuman they had built up in their minds: about the myth that was so much smaller than the reality.

Draco stepped directly into the path of the deadly missile, and grimaced against the blinding rain. There was not a shred of glamour or romance in the things Quicksilver did, but there was glory in it. There was the glory of being a part of something larger than one man alone, of knowing that together, you were so much greater than the sum of your parts.

The train thundered closer. Behind him he heard the three wizards shouting in carefully matched tones: "Three... Two... One... Wingardium Leviosa!" They allowed no room for panic, and he felt a surge of pride for them all. His own wand was out in an instant, and his feet came to rest on the old cross ties, fitting neatly just inside the steel rails that vibrated with the train's approach.

He focused his wand carefully on the single headlamp, taking his time, willing his nerves into submission so they would obey him, and not the other way around. He took a deep, steadying breath and with all the magical force he possessed, roared, "Impedimenta!"

The train instantly began to grind to a halt, but its own weight and momentum carried it forward still, at an impossible rate. He held his wand steady, leaning into the counterforce of the train so hard the veins on his forearms stood out, pushing back with his magic until sweat broke out under his robes and mingled with the rain streaming down his face and neck.

It filled his vision now, smoke and steel, and the thunder of its wheels screaming at him: thirty feet, twenty, ten away. The heat of it billowed around him, sparks flew off his face, leaving almost invisible burn marks behind them. He sucked in another deep breath.

"IMPEDIMENTA MAXIMA!"

The passengers would all complain of whiplash tomorrow, but the train was shrieking and grinding to a halt, fountains of sparks raining from its wheels into the night around him, and he could reach out and touch it with a finger if he liked.

He did, grinning to himself with a sense of triumph that far outmatched anything he'd ever experienced on the Quidditch pitch at school, or in the war afterward.

And then, on the tracks, in the dark and the rain, a face suddenly filled his mind: freckled, and framed with red hair and sage-green robes, smiling sleepily up at him, a pair of kneazle kits in her arms. It was so startlingly unexpected that he stumbled back a little, gasping, and found himself in the arms of Arthur Weasley himself, who was at that moment leaning up against a sorry little car around which Muggle policemen were swarming.

"Well done, son, well done!"

Arthur's enthusiasm seemed to be contagious, for around him Lowen and David were clapping each other on their backs and knocking their heads together like a couple of Muggle rugby players. A man in uniform turned to them gravely. "You'll need to step over here, gentlemen, and the Inspector'll get a statement from you both."

Draco righted himself, and looked at Arthur, who as usual, looked as if he'd been put together as an afterthought. "Right!" Arthur told the man cheerfully. "Just give me a moment to find my spectacles on the tracks. I know they're here somewhere!"

The officer nodded perfunctorily, and Arthur pulled Draco nose down to the tracks with him. "Capital bit of work, Malfoy! To Quicksilver!"

Draco nodded brusquely, and fumbled his wand back out of his pocket, touching it to the end of Arthur's. A silver arc flashed across the sky. They looked toward the place across the tracks where Lowen and David were touching wands and Disapparating from under an identical silver arc, at a point behind some bushes.

Behind them, they heard an officer calling. "'ey you, Mister! Wiv the red 'air! Oive got summat ter ask ya. C'mere a sec!"

Arthur winked broadly at Draco, and they stood together, wands extended, long practice asserting itself as they cried in unison, "Confundus! Disapperecium!"

Five minutes later, the sergeant on scene rubbed his eyes vigorously against the rain and snapped at the newspaper photographer. "I don't care if you call it a damned eclipse, or a UFO invasion. Whatever that flash of light was, it stopped the train all right, and the car is off the tracks. We'll figure out the rest at daylight. Meanwhile, take yer crews and get out before I have the lot of ya cited fer trespass!"

The photographer and news crew protested loudly.

On the nearest rail, the sign of Mercury's wings glowed softly, awaiting discovery.